Someone call the great fashion houses of Paris and Milan.
Functional fashion has had its day. Ours is the age of skin-deep declaration.
We’re not talking tattoos; this is about wearing your essence in every pore.
You’ll recall the Safety Orange cats of Tabby’s Place, outfitted in Dorito-colored collars to warn all would-be petters, “I may actually bite your actual face off. XO.”
They are brighter than the sun, much less a mere orange collar. They are orangier than all the groves of Florida. They wear their tangerine togs all the way to the skin.
No, really. You know how, if you gently part a cat’s fur, you can see his skin, and they’re all kinda different and fabulous? Well, Oscar and Alfred are neon orange under their autumny fur. Yes, I’m serious. No, I’m not going to check.
Orange makes them irresistible.
Orange makes them adorable.
Orange serves — at least in the case of these two sirs — as warning of warfare.
The specific art of war is where our glowy gents part ways, however. Alf and Osc came by their belligerence differently.
Alfred, all crimson stripes and wary green eyes, was found by a kindhearted cop. Officer Goodheart, as we’ll call him, was moved by Alfred’s scared and skinny frame, and through a happy series of events, Alf was bound for Tabby’s Place.
He has never forgiven Officer Goodheart this indignity.
Alfred doesn’t exactly like us. More precisely, Alfred thinks that we are worse than olive loaf, plastic bags and reboots of 80s sitcoms combined. Alfred likes Tabby’s Place just fine; he’d just prefer the humans vacate the building. He doesn’t even particularly want to bite you, any more than you want to bite into a log of olive loaf. He just wants you to vaporize, please.
And if need be, he’ll bite you to get his point across.
We’re working on it. We’ll even bring in some olive loaf if need be.
Equally orange but entirely other, Oscar lives ten feet and one universe away from Alfred. As the newest resident of Suite FIV, he joins a rough and tumble tub of reformed tomcats (plus Rogue, who is so much more than “one of the guys” that the tomcats no longer need reminders that she’s a Valkyrie). Our FIV+ fellas are a bunch of cuddlers and rumblers and rowdy rocking weirdos, and we adore them all.
Oscar fits in. Kind of.
He’s as lovable as he looks, equal parts lumberjack and lounge lizard. With his orblike orange body, Oscar is a standout specimen even in a room of heroic hunks (hello, Wolfie). Unlike Alfred, he does like select humans, a whole heckuva bunch. If you’re among his selection, he’ll love you up, and let you do the same.
Until it’s time to take your face off.
We’re working on it. We’ll even shield ourselves with olive loaf if need be.
So shine on, you crazy oranges. We may not yet feel safe around you, but we’re smitten to the sky.